The Last Best Gift
by StatsGrandma57
Summary: Written in conjunction with 2Old4This2, and I couldn't have done it without her. Han contemplates his next move after Leia's death. No money has changed hands, much as I'd like that to be true.


THE LAST BEST GIFT

Han hadn't gone back into Leia's study since his initial foray a month or so back. Her essence had been so strong during his visit that he'd had a hard time separating the love from the loss, and he hadn't made a return visit. However, he had left the door open, so that he could feel her as he walked by. He knew he'd go back in there some time, he just wasn't exactly sure when. The scrabbling sound that issued from the room, along with the occasional thump that indicated a falling object, let him know that that time was now.

Pulling himself away from the hypnotic glare of the holotank, Han strode to Leia's study. Sure enough, there was the not-so-little fuzzy boy pitten standing in the middle of Leia's desk, a jumble of data disks, and his wife's work tablet littered the floor below.

"You," remonstrated Han as he scooped the pitten up off the desk and held the animal up to his face. "Don't you have any respect? She was a great woman, and this is where she did her work.

{{{This is the work area of the greatest woman in the universe. Show some respect!}}}" The pitten, seated in the palm of Han's hand, merely stared back at the man, and blinked once—a very insolent blink, Han thought. Of course the creature had no respect; he was a pitten.

Clutching the reprobate firmly in his hand, Han bent down to pick up the scattered disks, placing them back on the desk. As he reached for the tablet, he realized that it had powered up. _A Personal History of the Rebellion_ , flashed across the screen.

"Hmmph," Han muttered to the pitten. "You must have dug deep to find this to knock down. She wrote this history a couple of years ago." As he gazed at the screen, however, he saw that it was dated just after Jarik's wedding; before Leia had become ill. Han pushed those thoughts out of his mind, now curious to see if Leia had been doing a second edition of her work. Not that there was anything new about the history of the Rebellion, he thought as he raised one ironic eyebrow; it was a history.

Han lowered fuzzy boy to the floor as he swiped through some notes Leia had made on the tablet. No, he realized, this was a new work. He kept swiping until he got to the dedication. Sinking down into the desk chair, he read his wife's words, hearing her voice as he read.

 _ **Dedication**_

 _As I sit down to write this, I know that many other histories of the Rebellion have been written, including one by myself. Some were written as a simple laying down of facts, others viewed that great series of battles through the lenses of tactics, of politics, the fall of the Empire, or the many changes wrought in our galaxy. In this work, I want to write the history of the Rebellion from a different point of view; I want to record the history of the people who fought it._

 _Of course, many of those names are already well-known, inscribed in the annals of history, General Doddana, Mon Mothma, my father Bail Organa, and myself. However, the people who really won the Rebellion are none of these. Instead they were parents and grandparents, children and grandchildren, farmers, merchants, and mechanics. There were also thieves, smugglers, conmen, even pirates; beings {{{of every kind}}} from every possible walk of life. Diverse as they were, they all shared one thing in common: the desire to live their lives freely. For that common belief they sacrificed their livelihoods, time spent with their families, even their very lives. And diverse as they were, they won. {{{Perhaps because of their diversity, they won}}} For all of us. Those are the individuals who we should never forget._

 _It is to those brave warriors I dedicate this work._

Han swallowed down the lump of emotions caught in his throat. _Farmboys and smugglers—_ him and Luke.

One more swipe of his finger and Han found a list of people Leia had obviously intended to interview. He knew many of them, they were his friends: Wedge and some of the surviving Rogues, Tycho, Winter. In some cases, the beings listed were relatives, children and grandchildren of the people who'd fought in the Rebellion. One name caught his eye, Porkins.

His mind flew back to that long ago day in the briefing room on Yavin 4, back before he'd felt anything other than disdain at the room full of pilots. He'd wondered aloud at the sanity of that ragtag group, all solemnly listening to the crazy plan to destroy the Death Star, willing to die for the chance to try. They were all crazy, he was sure of it.

Only a few minutes later, when he'd been heading back to the hangar to claim his reward, he'd run into, quite literally, one of those pilots. His name was Porkins, he happily told Han. The round-faced man had talked about his family, while Han had listened politely, but uninterested. However, as the chubby pilot readied himself to head to his x-wing, he'd said that it was because he wanted his children to grow up free that he was willing to die. Then, with a cheery wave, he'd continued on his way, leaving Han to shake his head in disbelief.

{{{It wasn't till later that he understood.}}}

Later, on the Falcon, while he was listening to the pilot's transmissions as they'd begun their attack on the Death Star, Han had felt the tiniest twinge of pain, of something, when Porkins had been shot down.

A scratching sound issuing from the bottom of the desk brought Han's thoughts back to the present.

"Hey, you monster, cut it out!" Reaching down, Han caught the fuzzy pitten by his scruff and hauled him out from underneath the desk. He stared at the wriggling, unrepentant kitten.

 _A warrior's name,_ Chewie had said.

"You know what?" Han addressed the small creature. "I'm going to name you Porkins. You are a little porky anyway."

Rising, Han took Porkins back with him into the other room.

"And it's a warrior's name."

01123581321345589144233377610987

The sun grew gradually warmer, and Han found himself in Leia's garden more and more. He would never have her touch for plants, but he was determined to keep it alive, as it was so much a part of her. In particular, he hoped that her ladalum plants would bloom fully; he'd done plenty of reading on keeping the species that she'd grown, but ladalum was...her.

He'd have thought that Chewie, having lived much of his life on a planet that was verdant and rich with flowers, would be a natural at gardening, but Chewie's contributions were always accompanied by heavy doses of grumbling.

The pittens, naturally, were interested in a warm day in the sun, searching out rodents, and annoying both Han and Chewie. Chewie would naturally take any opportunity to get out of weeding, pruning, and preparing the soil. Willy and her rapidly growing babies would run up and down Chewie, murring happily, and Chewie was more than willing to oblige.

"You're useless," Han growled as he attempted to trim the leaves from a rohixa plant, so to give way for the delicate white blooms that he hoped would appear. Leia had carried them in her wedding bouquet. Han found himself thinking back to his wedding day, and he remembered it as if it was right before him.

He'd also taken to watching their wedding holos when he'd feel down. They'd flood him with good memories. Han had also contemplated writing the rest of Leia's memoirs, but he knew that he wasn't a writer, and he felt as if he were stealing something that was hers and hers alone. It was sad that it would never be finished. Leia had had so many stories to tell...

And one of those stories was theirs.

{So what are you going to do with yourself}? Chewie barked at Han, shaking him from his reverie-and causing Han to nearly slice off his finger.

"I _was_ gardening!" Han snarled at him. "Whaddya mean, what am I gonna do with myself? I'm doing fine, except when you're annoying me!"

{You know what I mean}, Chewie said, half-serious and half-smirking.

"No, I don't," Han said, removing his flying gloves, which were remarkably unsuited to gardening. He'd have to get a real pair of gardening gloves.

Chewie grew serious. {You're not that old. In fact, you're really young for a Wookiee}.

"Last time I checked, I wasn't a Wookiee," Han shot back tartly.

{We all have our deficiencies. But look at you. You watch your family holos all the time. You're out here in Leia's garden, and I know how you feel about gardening}.

"I'm keeping it alive. For Leia. She'd want that."

{Are you doing it for Leia, or for you}?

Han stalled for a moment. "For both of us," he said softly. "I've lost of the love of my life. I'm not going to lose everything about her."

{Yes, but how many standard months can you work in the garden}? Chewie retorted.

"In the spring and summer," Han snapped back. "That's half the year."

{You've still got skills. Gardening's not one of them}.

"Oh, and you've brought so much to the table on that!" Han tore off his flying gloves. "Get to the point or get out." Han was beyond irritated. "Why are you so interested in my life, anyway? Don't you have one of your own?"

{My life debt is to you and your family, and as you know}—

"Is the most sacred honor a Wookiee can have. How many times have I tried to release you from that?" Han was headed towards the house.

{It can't be undone}.

Han spun on his heel. "I'm all too aware."

{Cub, you have many good years ahead of you}-

Han burst into fury, stalking towards his friend, his mouth set in a hard line, his finger sharply poking into Chewie's broad, furry chest. "How do you know how many years I have left? Since when did you become a fortune teller? I could die tomorrow, and from where I sit, sometimes it's looking like a damn good option! I'd at least be with Leia!"

Chewie gulped. He knew that Han was heartbroken over the loss of his beloved, and there was nothing that he could do to change that. It would always be with Han, despite the fact that he was generally a person who revealed little of his emotions. Chewie missed Leia deeply as well; it made him wonder how he'd ever get on without Malla. But Wookiees were eminently practical creatures. They honored those who had gone before them by going forward.

He'd struck a nerve, and he'd say no more. For the moment.

01123581321345589144233377610987

Han had nearly forgotten that he'd agreed to meet Jaina for dinner that evening; it was going to be her and him only. Jag was away on secondment, not an unusual aspect of their lives, and they'd at long last found a nanny that was able to work with her two children's high spirits and their parents' odd work schedules. "Not as good as Brendahl," she'd commented, "but Scali puts up with all of us, and she's always in a good mood, and that's saying a lot."

He was still irate with Chewie; since when was it his business how he spent his time? He was doing the best he could. Admittedly, Leia's garden was in no way nearly as lovely as it had been when she'd cared for it. His schedule tended to revolve around the pittens; he still hadn't found a suitable name for the rapidly growing girl pitten, but he found the house a lot less lonely with them...

"Hey! That's a good shirt!" Han snarled as Porkins leapt atop the clean spacer shirt he'd laid out on the bed. Porkins felt that flat items should be rolled up into balls and clawed at; he was more than able to help out in that department. Han groaned and pulled another one from the closet; Porkins was utterly involved and would not be deterred until the shirt was a complete mess.

He pulled on his dewlap skin spacer jacket; the evenings were still slightly cool, and he and Jaina would be dining al fresco at their favorite seafood place. Jag hated seafood, so this was an indulgence for her. Han would, of course, offer to pay, she would argue with him, and after considerable wrestling, he'd slip the check to the server under the table.

He was chopping some leftover avan for the pittens when the door opened. Jaina never knocked; all of the kids' biometrics were programmed in, but Jacen and Anakin always announced their arrival first. Not Jaina; like her father, she enjoyed making an entrance.

"Dad! I'm here!" she announced with her usual subtlety or, more specifically, lack thereof. _She's my daughter, all right,_ he mused, a small smile playing across his lips. "Are you spoiling those pittens again?" She wandered to the kitchen as Han set three bowls down. She chuckled. "It's amazing they're not fatter than they are." She walked over to her father as he washed his hands, placing a kiss on his cheek. "How are you?"

"I'm going out for seafood with my favorite daughter. How bad could I be?" Han grinned at her.

"Dad, I'm you're only daughter." She scowled at him.

"Doesn't mean you're not my favorite. Let's get some dinner of our own," he said, as Jaina slipped his arm into his.

01123581321345589144233377610987

The seafood restaurant was a short walk; father and daughter passed by the garden.

"Dad, have your ever thought of hiring a professional?" Jaina asked him as they headed to the causeway that led to the restaurant.

"For what?" Han demanded, his daughter's arm still holding his.

"The garden! I know you want to keep it going, but let's face it, it's not your skill set." Jaina was nothing if not blunt.

"Thanks. Is this how you talk to Jag?" Han demanded. He'd never have admitted it, but he was mildly injured by his daughter's remarks.

"Oh no. I'm much worse with him," Jaina assured him, a wicked smile on her face. "Just like Mom was with you."

Han winced. Leia had never once minced words with him. He'd always respected her for that, because he knew that he could always trust what she had to say was true. Leia, however, used somewhat more tact. Unless he'd really pulled a wrong move. Then, he got it, full frontal verbal assault. _And he'd deserved it, every time._

The restaurant was fairly crowded for a week night, but Han was well known, and it was easy for them to get a small table by the waterfront. He'd gone here many times with Leia.

 _Go and enjoy your dinner, Flyboy. Enjoy your time with your daughter._

Han swore he could hear Leia's voice chiding him. He smiled.

They sat down and ordered appetizers with ale for Han, wine for Jaina. Jaina, of course, never hesitated when she had something to say to her father, and this time was no exception.

"Dad, what are you doing? I mean, really, are you just going to kill Mom's garden and play with pittens the rest of your life?" she demanded immediately after ordering Berbersian crab salad and exosquidra poppets. She swirled her wine in her glass, but her gaze into her father's eyes was penetrating and steady.

Han was irritated. He'd hoped to enjoy a pleasant dinner with his daughter, and here she was, continuing on with what Chewie had started.

"You know, Chewie was all over my ass about this today," he said tartly.

"I figured as much. So I thought I'd bring it up as well," Jaina said, grinning.

"Stop looking so smug," he glared at her. "Really, I spent my life running my own business, raising my family, training pilots, and living with the holorazzi running me down. Do you really think just because I'm old I've become incompetent?"

Jaina leaned across the table and set her hand gently on his. "No, Dad," she said softly. "That's why we're talking to you about this."

Han rolled his eyes. Now his kids were going to tell him how to live? He'd always lived by his own rules. That was not going to change.

"You've got unfinished business, Dad," Jaina told him between bites.

"Of course I have unfinished business! I'm still breathing!" What Han had envisioned as a reprieve was turning into a battlefield. It was not the evening he'd hoped for.

Jaina gobbled down a few poppets. "Actually, it's Mom who's got unfinished business."

"Well, I'm sure it annoys her," Han remarked, and Jaina burst out laughing. Han couldn't help smiling a little himself. Leia would indeed be irritated that she hadn't been able to finish things she'd started.

Their entrees were served, meat-fin for Han, spiky lobster for Jaina. As always, there were generous sides of Corellian rice, seaweed greens gently sauteed, and fresh hot bread with spices. As filling as the meal was, Han knew that Jaina, like her mother, would save room for dessert. Leia had always had a sweet tooth, especially for all things chocolate.

Jaina had dropped the subject of Han's life during the meal and discussed her own instead-how her kids were doing in school, how Jag was unhappy with his assigned duties at the moment, how Threepio was irritating her and she was thinking of handing him off to Anakin.

"Did you ask Anakin about that?" Han asked skeptically.

"Of course not. But he's the only one that can handle Threepio. All he does is complain about the kids and how much noise they make, and he hates the animals at Jacen's, and Jarik, well, he'd just decommission him. Which, despite the fact that he drives me insane, I don't really want to happen."

"I could decommission him. I keep wondering why I didn't do it after he ruined your mom's and my first kiss," Han growled, but in an amused fashion.

"Didn't seem to matter," Jaina said as she dipped a lobster claw in blue butter sauce. "She married you, didn't she?"

Han smiled, and looked far away at the three moons rising over the ocean. "That she did."

"So finish her memoir," Jaina said quietly.

"What?" Han dropped his fork, making it clatter loudly on the plate. "What are you talking about? Your mom's the writer in the family, not me." Han had always favored maths and the sciences; he'd enjoyed history but when it had come to composition at the Academy, he had been anything but skilled. Fortunately, the Rebellion hadn't cared much as to how his reports had been written, so long as they were accurate.

"Yes, but she'd want you to finish it," Jaina insisted. The server droid arrived, and Jaina ordered the molten chocolate cake the restaurant was well known for. Han settled for a Corellian brandy with kaf.

Han shook his head. "Jaina, I don't even write in Basic. Mom was writing in Basic."

"Write it in Corellian," Jaina shot back. "It's going to be translated into at least a few thousand languages, anyway."

"But I can't write it like your mom did," Han protested. "She's an excellent storyteller, a skilled writer. I won't sound anything like her."

"Don't even try to. Write it the way you would. You're funny, and witty, and besides, you'd have to get together with some of the parties who're still around to get their input. I know Mom has lots of notes, but it's one thing to have notes and another to get out and show 'em what you wrote, make sure it's what they remember," Jaina advised, her voice serious.

"There's a lot of parts I don't like remembering," Han informed her quietly.

"Yeah, Dad, and lots of stuff Mom didn't like remembering, either. But it was part of the story. It's the story of those who helped create the victory. Like you."

Han was unconvinced. "I don't know, honey."

"Think about it. It'd be really important to Mom."

Han hesitated. He was about to ask a question that he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to. "Do you...ever speak to Mom through the Force?"

Jaina shook her head. "No. She hasn't come to me that way yet. She may not ever." A tear glistened in her green-gold eyes that were so much like Han's. "I miss her. But the Force does what it will, not what I want it to."

Han gave a wry smile. "I thought Uncle Luke taught you how to control it."

"He did. But he also taught me that it won't necessarily answer me. And if it does, not in the way I want necessarily. And believe me, if I could use it to keep my kids in line, I would." Both laughed.

"And here I thought it was just me who couldn't keep my kids in line," Han said dryly, swirling the brandy in his snifter.

01123581321345589144233377610987

After a few more days, numerous cuts on his hands, and having been stabbed by thorns more than a few times, Han had come to the conclusion that gardening was, as Jaina had so deftly stated it, not his skill set. He'd advertised for a gardener, and lucked into finding Shog, a Cerean who, despite his disdain for the condition of Leia's garden, willingly offered to become the new gardener and landscaper. Han had expressed to him that the garden was an intimate connection to his late wife, and Shog immediately empathized; he'd lost his wife in a battle during one of the civil wars taking place in the Middle Rim, and not even in battle. His late beloved had simply been collateral damage. Shog promised to keep the spirit of Leia alive, organize her memory garden, and asked many questions as to what sort of person Leia had been. He'd known her public persona, as did nearly everyone in the galaxy, but he'd wanted more personal details, as to her preferences in fragrances, textures, colors. He'd wanted to know what it had been like to live with one of the most notable women in the galaxy, what she'd been like.

"She was amazing," Han told him simply.

"Then she deserves an amazing garden," Shog said, and headed out to begin work.

 _So gardening's out_ , Han thought, not without some irritation. _Sorry, Leia. I tried. But I'm gonna leave it to the professionals on this one._

The pittens were, naturally, demanding to be fed. _How the hells do they know what time it is?_ Han found some of the roasted avan he'd made and shredded it for them as they mewled and pawed at his legs. Porkins, the most aggressive when it came to food, nipped at him. Fortunately, it was Han's boots he was nipping at, so no blood was drawn.

"You certainly live up to your namesake," Han muttered as he set the bowls on the floor. The pittens pounced upon the treat as if they were in the throes of starvation.

Pittens fed, and presumably content, at least for the moment, Han poured himself a cup of kaf.

 _What was he going to do?_

He'd been deliberately avoiding Leia's study. Why, he didn't know. But since the last time he'd entered and examined the piles of notes and datapads that were comprising her history of those who'd been part of the Rebellion, he'd stayed away. The pittens would go in and knock things down; he hadn't bothered to straighten anything up.

 _Might as well tidy up,_ he muttered to himself.

Again, before entering, Han stood before it, taking a deep breath. Something about stepping into the room made him feel as if he was an invader in his late wife's inner sanctum. He'd rarely gone in there when she had still been alive. It was her space, her own place for her work and thoughts. He'd always felt like an intruder. He still did.

Finally, Han pushed the door open, and was greeted with a minor disaster. The pittens had indeed been busy. Datapads were strewn about everywhere, a vase was lying unceremoniously on its side, and flimsis were strewn about and apparently had been considered suitable toys. As he—very carefully—lowered himself to the floor, the three pittens, apparently having demolished their avan, darted into the room to join him.

"Are you guys here to help me if I can't get up?" Han asked them as a knee joint cracked. _Getting old, it's not for the faint of heart,_ he muttered to himself. It was bad enough that his body reminded him of it, but the losses were the really hard part. He gathered the datapads, stacking them neatly on the desk. Unlike Leia, who was at her best with everything spread out around her, Han preferred order; ships were small and didn't leave room for messes. He managed to get off the floor with only a moderate amount of creaking.

 _Kriff, I used to be able to do things real quiet-like,_ Han grumbled to himself. _Now I can't do anything without sound effects._

He lowered himself into Leia's chair. It was, like her desk, far too short for him to be comfortable. However, that had been by design. Han had custom built the desk for her, carving ladalum leaves into the legs, and polishing it to a high sheen. He'd presented it to her for their first Winterfest in their then-new home.

Han remembered the delight on her face upon seeing his handiwork, and it had immediately been moved into her study, replacing the small, utilitarian desk she'd used on Coruscant. There had never been room for anything larger. The desk he'd crafted for her was spacious and proportional to her size. He'd catch her admiring the craftsmanship he'd put into it.

It had been a labor of love.

Han grabbed for the stack of datapads, hoping to be able to make some order out of them, when the girl pitten waged a full frontal assault on them, leaping on to the desk. Han groaned.

"I've gotta get a name for you," he muttered as he placed the pads back on the desk. "Something that says what a demon you are." He stacked the datapads—again—and pulled one off the top.

The header was _Wedge Antilles._

Wedge had been a kid when they'd met. At first, Han had found his enthusiasm for the Rebellion to be grating. He was Luke's age, which meant: very young. But Wedge was also one of the first of the battalion to grow on him. Wedge was always up for a prank; he played cards well-though not well enough to beat Han when he played; he could drink most of the juniors under the table. And he'd been a damn good pilot; both had been in a number of battles together, and Wedge was just crazy enough to take necessary risks. Some unnecessary ones, too, Han mused. After the war, they'd both been flight instructors. Wedge had kept his military commission, unlike Han, but they'd both been in some pretty tight spots over the years, both together and separately. Wedge had always been Leia's transport pilot when Han was unavailable—and he tolerated the cast of not always agreeable characters more easily than Han had.

Now Wedge was retired. Like he and Leia, Wedge and his wife had gone on to raise a family of three kids. Leia had begun writing down when and where they'd met, the details of the prominent family he'd come from, and what he'd been like as a young man…

Leia had died before she'd been able to finish talking to him, Han realized.

He thumbed through more datapads, realizing that Leia had not done the interviews she'd so wanted for this memoir—the memories of those who'd lived through the Rebellion with them and for many of them, had become deeply integrated into their lives.

Han smiled.

"I'm gonna do this for you, sweetheart," he promised, and picked up his comm to get in touch with Wedge.


End file.
